Border Dogs

by Ralph Cotton

  “Rustling horses, huh?”

  “No. Not the way I saw it. You know how it is with those big Mexican spreads. Any wild mustangs in the region they figure belongs to them. We cut out forty head or so and drove them to Zell’s encampment. That’s how I know it’s Martin Zell, and why I know where he’s headed. They were planning to rob an army train then. I heard some of it from Leo.”

  The Ranger only nodded, listening.

  “After we sold them the horses, I took my share of the money and cut back home—never did trust Payton Parker. Him and Leo got drunk and lost their part of the money playing poker. They came looking for me at my place, but I wasn’t home. The rest…? Well, I’ve already told you the rest.”

  The Ranger shook his head slowly without turning to Durant. If this was true, and he had no reason to think otherwise now, Durant had brought all this trouble on himself when he opened his home to the killers of his wife and child. There was a lot the Ranger could have said right then, but he chose not to. Instead, he turned and walked back beside the white barb. He took a canteen, uncapped it, drank, and handed it down to Durant. When Durant had swished a mouthful and spit it out, he looked up at the Ranger. “So there. See why I didn’t want to talk about it?”

  “Yeah, I see.” The Ranger brought the canteen back to the white barb and looped it over the saddle horn. He raised each of the white barb’s hooves in turn, checking them as he ran his gloved hand across the frogs while the big horse shook out its damp mane. Then the Ranger straightened, looked at Durant, and said, “Let’s get going. It’s not getting any cooler out here.”

  They rode for the next hour, picking their way in and out of narrow crevices along the rim of the high rocky trail, until the Ranger caught the flash of sunlight off metal. He slowed the barb and drew it back into a shadow, forcing Durant’s horse and the spare horse behind him. “What is it?” Durant asked in a lowered voice.

  “Rifle flash, I think,” the Ranger said. And they sat silent until both of them saw it at the edge of a cliff thirty yards ahead. The flash came from the barrel of Private Dubbs’s rifle as he and Elerby struggled up from among the rocks, holding the old man between them.

  “Don’t shoot,” Dubbs called out, seeing the Ranger step his horse out of the shadows toward them with a big pistol already out of its holster. “We’re United States Army…got a wounded man here.”

  The Ranger eased down, holstered his pistol, and stepped from his saddle, letting go of the lead rope. Durant got down as well and held the lead rope and the reins to both their horses. “Stay put,” the Ranger said to him as he moved forward, looking past the soldiers and scanning the edge of the cliff and the rocky land below. Before he could ask them anything, Dubbs said in a panting voice, “We were scouting…got cut off from our sergeant. You wouldn’t believe what’s happened ten miles back.” He gestured with his rifle barrel. “We were hunting down the Mexicans that robbed our train. They held this man hostage…then they shot him.”

  “We know about the train,” the Ranger said, moving in, taking over for Elerby. “Here, I’ve got him.” Elerby’s breath heaved as he turned the old man loose and dropped onto a knee, using his rifle for support.

  “You knew?” Dubbs struggled the last few feet to the shade where Durant stood watching, taking a canteen down from his saddle horn.

  “Yep. I reckon the whole country knows by now,” the Ranger said. He saw old man Dirkson’s cloudy eyes glimpse his badge as they lay back against a rock. “A hostage, huh?” The Ranger spread the old man’s dusty shirt open and looked at the bloodstained bandage on his chest, the worst of it high and to the right, more of a shoulder wound, he thought. “Looks like you did a good job attending to him.” The Ranger looked into the old man’s eyes, searching for something there. “Lucky for you, it missed your lung. You’re going to be all right.”

  “Yeah,” old man Dirkson said, his voice low and breathy. “These soldiers hadn’t happened along…I’d be dead by now.” His eyes searched the Ranger’s in return.

  Then the Ranger stepped back and turned to Dubbs as Durant came forward and leaned in with the canteen. “What about the other two hostages? The two women?” the Ranger asked.

  “They’ve taken the women with them,” Dubbs said, slumping onto the ground in the sliver of black shade. “Four bandits are guarding them on a wagon…the rest are back there, beneath the high pass…fighting our troops.”

  Elerby had struggled to his feet and managed to drag himself over into the shade and collapsed against a rock. He took off his hat and let it drop. We’ve walked over ten miles…looking for a way to join our men.” He shook his damp head. “There’s no way down…”

  “What about the main trail?” The Ranger looked back and forth between the two tired soldiers.

  “It’s gone,” Dubbs said.

  “Gone?”

  Dubbs took a deep breath and told the Ranger and Durant everything that had happened since the train robbery. As he spoke, the Ranger glanced at the old man now and then, each time seeing the cloudy eyes look away from him. When Dubbs finished and slumped back against the rock beside Elerby, the Ranger slid a glance to Durant. Durant gave him a knowing nod, gesturing his eyes to the old man. The Ranger turned his gaze to the two soldiers. “These are not Mexicans, you know.”

  All the while as Dubbs had spoken, giving him the details, the Ranger kept getting a different picture of things. Three hostages escaping with a wagon load of ammunition? The two women with their hands still tied? Uh-uh. He wasn’t buying it.

  “They’re not?” Elerby looked confused.

  But Dubbs rubbed the sweat from his forehead. “Our sergeant didn’t think so either. He thinks they’re an old confederate bunch operating below the border.”

  The Ranger snapped a look at Durant now and held his eyes for a second. Then he turned to the old man. “Where were you headed?”

  “What?” Old man Dirkson’s eyes looked sharper now, not nearly so drained and exhausted as before.

  “The train…where were you headed on it?” The Ranger watched his eyes closely, seeing the old man stall for a second, working things out.

  “Oh. El Paso, I reckon.” He managed a stiff shrug. “I’ve got kin there, somewhere.” He winced, scooting himself up a bit against the rock. “Didn’t really have any place in mind…”

  “I bet you didn’t.” The Ranger stared at him, a thin, knowing smile on his face, then lifting his pistol from his holster and letting it hang down his dusty thigh. The soldier’s eyes widened. “Sir?” Elerby said. But the Ranger didn’t answer. The soldiers straightened, looking at the Ranger with grave curiosity. The old man only stiffened and returned the Ranger’s piercing stare.

  “Listen real close,” the Ranger said to Dirkson, as if the others were no longer there. “I’m going to tell you what my interest is in all this. Then you tell me what you think would be the best thing for me to do.” He stepped in closer, his gloved thumb over the hammer of his pistol. “Fair enough?”

  Old man Dirkson studied the Ranger’s eyes, then nodded, letting out a raspy breath. “I’ll advise you the best I can…provided your interest and mine ain’t too far apart.” He narrowed his gaze beneath bushy eyebrows and waited.

  Dubbs and Elerby looked puzzled. Noticing the cuffs on Durant’s wrists for the first time, Dubbs pointed a dusty finger and said, “What’s going on here? Is this man a prisoner?”

  “It’s a long story, young man,” the Ranger said, his eyes fixed on the old man on the ground. He stepped back, took the key from inside his vest, then unlocked Durant’s handcuffs and let them fall. “We don’t have time to explain it.”

  Durant rubbed his wrists, looked at the Ranger, and said, “How about a rifle, Ranger, and that pistol you took from me?”

  “Don’t push it, Durant,” the Ranger said. “I’m uncuffing you so you can handle your reins better. We’re going into harder country from here.”

  “But I was telling the truth. You just saw that.” He n
odded at the old man, then looked back at the Ranger, taking a short step toward him.

  The Ranger stood firm, his thumb going back across the hammer of his big pistol. “You might have been right about it not being Mexicans. But don’t start thinking that makes us partners.”

  The two soldiers just stared at one another. On the ground, old man Dirkson managed to spit and run a dusty hand across his mouth.

  PART 3

  Chapter 10

  When the two soldiers had rested, they headed out with the Ranger, Durant, and the old man, back to the steep path the wagon had taken toward the flatlands. But instead of staying on the high trail, the five of them had cut diagonally down the rough sloping land in single file, leading the horses across jagged rock and loose sandy ground that shifted and spilled away beneath their hooves. More than once Elerby had tried to stop and catch his breath, but each time, the Ranger had coaxed him on. Yet when the old man stopped and swayed in place for a second, the Ranger called them all to a halt.

  “Let’s take a breather here.” The Ranger took the old man by his forearm and moved him to a slice of shade. Elerby and Dubbs looked at one another, sweat pouring down their faces. They still did not understand the conversation that had taken place between the old man and the Ranger back on the high pass trail, and they still didn’t understand what was going on between the Ranger and Durant. But Durant realized why the Ranger didn’t want these two to know the old man was one of Zell’s riders. The soldier’s duty would be to arrest the old man. The Ranger needed the old man to show him where the wagon was headed—all the way into Mexico if need be.

  They all rested in the shade and fanned themselves with their dusty hats until after a few moments the Ranger stood up with old man Dirkson beside him and waved them ahead.

  They moved on, struggling for the next hour around a wide belly of steep rock, the horses shying away from the edge. At the other side where the slope grew less harsh, they moved down along the path the wagon had taken, and in another half hour stood at the more gentle slope of sandy soil reaching out into a broad basin. The Ranger stopped with old man Dirkson beside him and let his eyes follow the wagon ruts into the distant, wavering heat. “This is where we leave you, troopers,” he said, turning to Elerby and Dubbs.

  “What do we do now?” Elerby looked lost, gazing across the endless swirl of sand and heat.

  “Stay right along the bottom here,” the Ranger said, pointing east. “You should hook up with your troops a few miles back. If they’re where you said they were, they should be moving this way.”

  “If there’s any of them left,” Elerby said.

  “There will be. The main thing Zell’s after is the wagon. Once he saw he was cut off from it, I expect he moved his men along these buttes until he found a way up. He’s somewhere back behind us right now, I’d say, following these wagon tracks. If your lieutenant is any leader at all, he’s headed this way to cut him off.”

  “Our lieutenant isn’t much of anything,” Dubbs said. “Our sergeant is the only one seems to know what’s going on. Hadn’t been for him, we all would have died at the train crash.”

  “Yeah?” The Ranger thought for a second, then said, “When you get back with your outfit, report to your sergeant first. Tell him what I’m up to out here. Be sure and tell him I have this man with me.” He gestured a gloved hand toward the old man standing beside him. “Will you do that for me?”

  “Yeah, but what’s the—?”

  “Your sergeant will understand,” the Ranger said, cutting Elerby off. “Now you two get moving. Zell’s close behind us. Don’t get yourselves caught out here.”

  “We won’t.” Dubbs turned to Elerby and pulled him by his shirtsleeve. “Come on, you heard him. Let’s move out.”

  The Ranger, Durant, and old man Dirkson stood in silence beside the horses, watching until the soldiers had moved off thirty yards. Then the Ranger turned to the old man. “You take my spare horse. Just remember…you try cutting back to Zell, I’ll put a bullet in the back of your head.”

  “Just a minute!” Durant stepped in. “We can’t take a chance like that! For God sakes, Ranger!”

  “Shut up, Durant, or you’ll be back in wrist irons. I’ve got no time to stand here and argue.” The Ranger stepped up into his stirrup and swung over onto his saddle. Hot wind pushed in from across the sand flats and lifted the brim of his sombrero. He tugged it down snug on his head. “Let’s hope the army gets here and meets Zell’s men coming down. If not, we’ll have our hands full front and rear.” He shot a glance at the old man as Durant handed him the reins to his horse and took control of his own big grule.

  “Don’t worry about me, Ranger,” Dirkson said. “All I want is to get my hands on the turn-coat dry-gulching sonsabitches that shot me. As for the women, you’re welcome to them. They’ll both tell ya, I treated them as right as I could.” He struggled up into the saddle grunting, the pain in his shoulder causing him to bend forward before righting himself and letting out a tortured breath.

  “All the same,” the Ranger said, his big pistol flagging the old man and Durant forward, “I’ll feel better with both of you riding in front of me.”

  They pushed on, following the wagon tracks. When they were a mile or more away from the base of the jagged hills, they glanced back into the wavering heat at the distant sound of a rifle shot. “Sounds like the two soldiers might’ve found the troops,” the Ranger said, raising his sombrero for a moment. Then he lowered it against the hot wind and stinging sand, and heeled the white barb forward.

  Back at the base of the hills, Elerby and Dubbs had flattened themselves on the hot ground, shouting and waving their arms at the two forward scouts riding toward them. “Feldman! Don’t shoot! It’s us! Dubbs and Elerby!”

  The two scouts stopped their horses, leaped out of their saddles, and took aim from within their own rise of dust. “Hold it,” one said to the other, hearing Dubbs’s voice. He lowered his rifle an inch and called out to the pair of waving arms, “Stand up, keep your hands high.”

  “You got it, Feldman,” Dubbs cried out, both panting and chuckling, struggling up from the hot sand. “Lord, are we glad to see you.”

  “Leave that weapon where it lays,” the scout called out to them as Elerby picked up his rifle, struggling to his feet.

  “Why? You see it’s us,” Elerby called out. “You won’t believe all we’ve been through. We got—”

  Dubbs reached over with his boot and kicked the rifle from his hand. “Shut up, Elerby. Now do like he says. You want to get shot by our own men?” He turned to Feldman and the other scout and added, “He’s just tired…the sun’s got to him. Look, our hands are up.” He wiggled his dirty fingers.

  “My goodness, Dubbs, we all thought you two were dead,” the scout said, finally recognizing him. “Sergeant Baines said he figured the blast killed yas.”

  “Well, it didn’t.” Dubbs let his hands down. “We figured the same thing happened to Baines. But I see it didn’t.” As he spoke, he saw Sergeant Baines come racing forward on a dusty bay.

  “Uh-oh, Casey. Now you’re in for it,” Feldman said in a lowered tone to the trooper beside him.

  “Who fired that shot?” Sergeant Baines came down from his horse as it jolted to a halt. He stomped forward, his rifle in his gloved right hand, a dirty bloodstained bandage wrapped around his bare left hand.

  The two scouts shot one another a glance. Then Feldman stepped forward. “Look, Sergeant, it’s Elerby and Dubbs.”

  “I see who it is. Who fired that shot?”

  Private Casey stepped forward, a worried look on his face. “I did, sir.”

  “Don’t sir me, you cracker-neck, bo-shanked, peckerwood. You want to get us all killed?” He snatched Casey’s rifle from his hand and slammed it against Feldman’s chest. Feldman caught it, staggering back a step. “I gave you an order…no firing down here. They heard that shot halfway from here to hell.”

  He glared into Casey’s face from an inch
away, his big teeth bared like a growling dog. Finally, he stepped back. “Now you get your sorry arse back with the others before I lose a boot up ya.” Casey turned with his horse’s reins in his hands, but Baines snatched them from him. “You walk back. I need this horse for a soldier.”

  “Sergeant Baines, I—” Feldman started to speak, but the sergeant snatched his reins from him as well.

  “You too, Feldman! For letting him do it. Get out of my sight, boy, before I have to write a sad letter to your mama.”

  While Feldman stepped away quick-time behind Casey, carrying both of their rifles, Baines turned to Elerby and Dubbs. Before he could say anything, Dubbs cut in. “I told them Elerby was addled by the sun, Sergeant…but he isn’t. I just didn’t want him saying anything until we talked to you first.”

  “Good lad.” A faint smile spread across the sergeant’s parched lips. “Now talk to me.” He handed them both the reins to the horses as he spoke.

  “Well, it’s just like you thought. These aren’t Mexicans we’re up against—”

  “We already know that, Dubbs. Tell me what happened up there. I know you made it to the high trail and back after I closed off the pass.”

  “You did that?” Dubbs looked at him, stopping for a second as they started leading their horses back along the base of the hills.

  “I did. Now what about the wagon? Talk to me, trooper.”

  On their way to join the others, Dubbs told him about the wagon, the old man—the third hostage as he put it—and how the four men had left him for dead in the middle of the trail. Then he told him how they’d taken the old man with them and met the Ranger and his black prisoner along the high trail and left them a mile back where the wagon tracks led off toward the border.

  “The dark-haired woman is some kin to the Ranger or something, I think,” Dubbs added when he’d finished. “Anyhow, the Ranger seemed to think the old man could lead him to her.” He left his hat and scratched his dirty head. “He said to tell you before we tell anybody else. Does any of this make any sense to you, Sergeant?”